BBCSH 'Delete'
by tigersilver
Summary: Is this how normal people feel? Rape/non-con. Sociopathic Sherlock. Bottom JOhn. Something very not good.


BBCSH 'Delete. [Delete. Delete.]'

Author: tigersilver

Warnings: Non-con. Rape. Bottom!John, Sociopathic!Sherlock. Post-Reichenbach.

Word Count: 1,300

Sherlock came in off the fire escape, at four in the morning. John was awake, barely, in the tiny drab kitchenette of his new flat, making tea. Well, when Sherlock said 'new'…

[And it hits him as a rush, how much he has missed this man, how he has wanted him, and not just the outside of him, his form trailing after Sherlock's rushing body, his comments and his jumpers, but the inside and it's on a molecular level now. It's a disease and he suffers it and has for ages and he doesn't understand why John has not seen that, why John has ever believed he would leave him or lie to him or go away if he didn't need. That John must be safe and Sherlock the one to keep him safe and all that somehow translates to the fact that he wants John, wants to have John, and he wants him every way possible and that would be being inside John and all he has to do to get there is use his transport. There's a cock included, he has one and John has a hole to put it in, people do that, all the time now, and though he's not done this, surely it will alright—no, he doesn't even care. John will forgive him later—there's nothing to forgive. This is only natural to want of John after denial—denial, denial.]

John fainted, nearly, where he stood leaning, or more wobbled on his pins, propping himself against the counter. Goggled, went pale as a sheet, reached out a tentative hand to Sherlock.

But, yes, sociopath, no?

Something short-circuited, then, in Sherlock's marvellous brain. Something very not good.

All the 'high-functioning' bit went south. He reached out and took hold of his friend, spun him about wildly, dragging at his dressing gown and his pants and shattering his teapot in the process.

[Nothing matters but the importance of climbing in, into John and he can't breathe without it and he needs a hot clench of John around him somehow, and his cock's the way to do it and is this how normal people feel? When they see the person they stupidly care for, even if people leave other people and take all their money and perhaps kill them or are jealous unto acts of murder, is this how they feel, the overwhelming sluice of need and want and desire flooding their senses and filthying up their brains?]

Unzipped, unbuckled and pulled his cock out of his dirty denims. Pried John's arse cheeks open and with barely a lick to a bit grubby palm for any sort of make-ready, slap dash and slapped on, Sherlock violated him—John Watson.

[The inside of John is a little lower than normal temperature; he's been chilled, standing there waiting for the kettle to boil, but Sherlock hardly notices that because he has been so cold, so cold, frozen and alone and he needs John at any temperature, just like this, all around him. And he'd fuck John if John were a dead body, and he'd fuck John if John were twenty years older and all saggy and ugly and he'd fuck John anytime and any place, and any way he can, because fucking equals love and care to some people, not normally Sherlock, but that's all right, because to John's mind, it does. That's what he was looking for all that time, with all those girls and here is Sherlock, giving it to him, and it's free and he wants it and won't John be happy with him?]

John…John gasped and grunted, hunkering his shoulders down, hunching himself over the countertop amidst the spilt sugar and the tipped over biscuit tin. He bit back some noises that Sherlock hardly heard. Didn't comprehend. But John took it, that was the main thing. Like a man, like a soldier, one of the Queen's men. What Sherlock handed him, when it wasn't at all how it was meant to go, none of it.

[John doesn't say a word, not one word against it and Sherlock might or might not have been able to hear him if he did say, John, even then, but John doesn't so Sherlock doesn't listen, cannot listen, and he has his eyes closed to all of it, just overwhelmed by the feel, and John's head is bowed down on the counter and there's a pounding away at Sherlock's temples of all the blood that's not in his prick and this is sex, sex, sex, and it's more than all right. He did not know, did not know, did not know, but certainly should have deduced—]

John could've stopped him short, any time he chose. Could've disabled or even killed him. There were knives at hand, there were heavy saucepots. Sherlock knew that later, too much later, but he didn't stop to ponder it then.

Though he should've. God, yes, he should have.

[It pumps through him in spurts and gouts, chugs as he's shoving and pulling, and it goes deep into John and John made a strangled noise at it, makes things happen to Sherlock's interior always, and Sherlock too made any number of sounds all through, good sounds, but it was groans more than syllables—he heard noises, though, animal ones like the ones at the zoological gardens in Zurich when the lions shagged and they were from John, weren't they? That was all good, then, really good…a good thing, wasn't it, wasn't it and why was John's face wet all over his cheeks and his lips and there were droplets falling between Sherlock's knuckles where he had hold hard of John's jaw, twisting his head on its floppy stem so he could kiss him—and kissing was good as well. All the everything about John was good; Sherlock was so glad to be part of it, but he didn't, no, he did not, didn't understand why—why?]

He sank down himself, on trembling legs, when John wrenched himself away from the scene of the crime—yes, Sherlock was a criminal now, wasn't he?—and made his way to the tiny lav, where he shut himself firmly in.

Stripped off his ruined tartan flannel wrapper, his torn and stained pants. Turned on the shower. The rattle of the vinyl curtain 'cross the metal rungs could be heard throughout the entire flatlet.

[—from_ in_ and _hot_ and _comforted _and _lazy_ to **cold **and **alone** and **John-going-away** and **Sherlock left behind this time**, there's barely a blink, a flicker of the overhead lamps in duration, and Sherlock's falling into the old formica where he fucked John to bits, broke John, his John, bonelessly limp, because John has twisted himself around at the end, clutching a tremulous fist to his flushed chest and he's stared deep into Sherlock like he's a criminal, a disaster, a freak, hopeless—sociopath, remember? John never came at all, not for Sherlock, not for Sherlock, no, and then John's gone away, gone away, gone.]

Like the door to the fire escape, the lock on the loo was pathetic. Sherlock could've picked it in an instant. He didn't. He crawled there, hands and knees, through the shards of John's teapot and the scattered leaves of Assam and the grand failure of his scheming and he made some noises as well.

[He's a sociopath, really he _is_. Lying before about it, of course lying, but now? Now he's gone and done it, mucked up everything good, and John will never forgive him. It was shaky before but now it's all over, over; he should go, he should leave, leave John in peace, without him, to pick up the pieces again, but he cannot go. He cannot go, he'll never go, and he has no hope John's a big enough man on the inside to take him on as he is now, a real freak, a real criminal, a lost cause—but he cannot go.]

[He'll never go. He's just come, he can't go. John must understand that. He won't be shifted from this door, this closed, locked door shut against him. He'll stay before it till he's old and he's grey and John kicks him out of the way like the rubbish he must be and John will be required to kill him now; he deserves it; he won't argue, he'll be meek as a lamb, but that's the only way Sherlock will go. Away from John.]

Drippy, whimpering, sad little sounds. The rush of hot cleansing shower water fair drowned them out completely.


End file.
